“Big bear!” he exclaimed.

There was a world of meaning in his words, and Rod flushed with pleasure.

“He weighs five hundred,” said Wabi, “and he stands four feet at the shoulders if an inch.”

“Fine rug!” grinned Mukoki.

“Let’s see, Rod; he’ll make a rug—­” Wabi walked critically around the bear.  “He’ll make you a rug over eight feet long by about six in width.  I wonder where he is hit?”

A brief examination showed that while the honors of the actual kill were with Rod, at least one, and perhaps two, of Wabi’s shots had taken effect.  The last shot from the white youth’s rifle had struck the bear just below the right ear, causing almost instantaneous death.  On this same side, which had been exposed to Rod’s fire, was a body wound, undoubtedly made by the shot on the mountain side.  When the animal was rolled over by the combined efforts of the three two more wounds were discovered on the left side, which had mostly been exposed to Wabigoon’s fire.  It was while examining these that the sharp-eyed Mukoki gave a sudden grunt of surprise.

“Heem shot before—­long time ago!  Old wound—­feel bullet!”

Between his fingers he was working the loose hide back of the foreleg.  The scar of an old wound was plainly visible, and both Rod and Wabi could feel the ball under the skin.  There is something that fascinates the big game hunter in this discovery of an old wound in his quarry, and especially in the vast solitudes of the North, where hunters are few and widely scattered.  It brings with it a vivid picture of what happened long ago, the excitement of some other chase, the well-directed shot, and at last the escape of the game.  And so it was now.  The heads of Rod and Wabigoon hung close over Mukoki’s shoulders while the old Indian dug out the bullet with his knife.  Another grunt of surprise fell from the pathfinder’s lips as he dropped the pellet in the palm of his hand.

It was a strange-looking object, smooth, and curiously flattened.

“Ver’ soft bullet,” said Mukoki.  “Never know lead thin, thin out lak that!”

With his knife he peeled off a thin slice of the ball.

“Heem—­”

He held up the two pieces.  In the sun they gleamed a dull, rich yellow.

“That bullet made of gold!” he breathed, scarcely above a whisper.  “No yellow lead.  That gold, pure gold!”

CHAPTER IX

UP THE OMBABIKA

For a few moments after Mukoki’s remarkable discovery the three stood speechless.  Wabigoon stared as if he could not bring himself to believe the evidence of his eyes.  Rod was quivering with the old, thrilling excitement that had first come to him in the cabin where they had found the skeletons and the buckskin bag with its precious nuggets, and Mukoki’s face was a study.  The thin, long fingers which held the two pieces of the gold bullet trembled, which was an unusual symptom in the old pathfinder.  It was he who broke the silence, and his words gave utterance to the question which had rushed into the heads of the two young hunters.